


please one more kiss in the kitchen (before we turn the lights off)

by echoesofstardust



Category: Figure Skating RPF
Genre: Domestic Fluff, F/M, Idiots in Love, Oblivious Mutual Pining, food is THE love language, how many Kitchen Scenes™ can i shove in a fic, plus smut bc i have no self-control
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-16
Updated: 2020-12-16
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:41:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28108773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/echoesofstardust/pseuds/echoesofstardust
Summary: Scott discovers that Tessa’s trying to get better at cooking to impress her ‘mystery man’. The only logical next step is to offer her cooking lessons, right? Right.
Relationships: Scott Moir/Tessa Virtue
Comments: 46
Kudos: 140





	please one more kiss in the kitchen (before we turn the lights off)

**Author's Note:**

> I love a good Kitchen Scene™ (practically every fic I write has one, haha) and it really was only a matter of time until I wrote an entire fic dedicated to the trope. On the menu tonight, we've got a healthy serving of domestic fluff, plus a generous seasoning of pining, and of course, topped off with all the softness. _Bon appétit_ , my loves, I hope you enjoy! <3
> 
> (title is from W.S. Merwin’s poem, ‘Wish’)

“Virtch!”

The door to the dance studio is open and sure enough, Tessa stands in the middle of the room, tendrils of her hair escaping her messy bun. She yelps, accidentally dropping her phone onto the floor. He catches her wince at the sharp sound and he rushes forward to pick it up.

“Scott! Please don’t—”

 _Top Ten Recipes To Rock His World! All You Need To Cook To Make Him Yours_ , is sprawled in big, block letters across the top of the article and he raises an eyebrow when he hands the phone back to her. Tessa’s cheeks are pink. “—look,” she finishes her sentence weakly, taking the phone with one hand and covering her face with the other. She mutters, ‘Shut up,’ under her breath.

He laughs, wrapping an arm around her shoulders to pull her close, pressing a kiss to her temple. “Didn’t say anything.”

“I could _hear_ it,” she huffs, her face still in her hands.

He moves so that he’s standing in front of her, his hands gentle on her shoulders, shifting down her arms and resting at her elbows. “T, whoever you want to woo is none of my business. I respect that. Of course, I’m always here for backup should you need it, and you know you can always hit me up for a rom-com marathon if the idiot breaks your heart—” he waits for her smile before he continues, “—but I’m kinda worried that you’re gonna give him food poisoning if you cook for him.”

She swats his shoulder. “I won’t give him food poisoning.”

“Tess, based on our standing Friday night dinners where _I'm_ the one who cooks for us, I am not the one getting fed in this friendship.”

“I buy you dessert!”

“I know. But that’s not cooking.”

“Just you wait, Moir,” she grumbles, “I’ll show you.”

There’s no one more determined than Tessa, and he doesn't doubt that she'll accomplish this goal too. Although she hasn't mentioned anyone that she's been seeing recently, hasn't so much dropped a name during their weekly dinners together, and he meant it when he said that he won't ask her who it is. 

But he does wonder, idly, who it could be.

—

It's a brilliant idea. 

"T!" He finds her in the small makeshift break room in the rink, already making what has to be her second cup of coffee. It’s endearing how many she needs to get through the day. He’ll have to sneak another one to her later on, probably after she’s finished working on the choreo for one of the senior pairs.

She looks up at him, placing her mug on the table, tilts her head to the side. "Yes?" 

"I have a brilliant idea."

She shakes her head. She takes the jar of sugar from the shelf, adding some to her coffee and then stirring her cup. "Oh no."

"Hey!" he protests.

She lifts it up to her lips and takes a sip, looking like she’s trying not to laugh. "Alright, let's hear it."

"I know you've been wanting to learn how to be better at cooking for your mystery man—" 

" _—and_ I'm leaving."

"Wait!" He catches her hand as she's about to walk past, and she pauses. "This is a genius idea. Just hear me out.” He waits until she’s looking at him. “What about I give you cooking lessons?"

She doesn't say anything, just stands there and blinks like he's just said something incredibly and utterly stupid.

“Scott, I don’t think that’s a good id—”

She’s shaking her head but he rushes to make his points, taking out a folded piece of paper from his jacket pocket where he'd written down his arguments because he thought it's something that Tessa would appreciate. He can see her smile out of the corner of his eye and he must’ve guessed right. "First, I know I'm not five-star restaurant material but I know you like my cooking because you have said, and I quote, "Scott, this chicken is the best fucking thing I have tasted, and if it was legal in the state of Quebec, I would marry it," end quote."

"It was really good chicken," she admits. 

"The secret is in the temperature of the oil. And the sprinkling of parmesan cheese after. Which brings me to my second point. I am willing to give you all my cooking secrets, which are many and varied and would put anyone's grandma to shame." He has notebooks of printed out and annotated recipes, and it's only grown in the two years he's known Tessa. They sit in his kitchen on one of the shelves, and the moment he notices that she likes something he's tried out, he makes sure to take note of it so that he can make it for her again.

"Third. We can do the lessons on Friday nights because we see each other on those nights anyway. Fourth, the lessons will come at the absolutely affordable price of profuse compliments to the teacher, which is me—”

“Ooh, that price might be too high—”

He laughs and she grins, this wide smile that he would never have expected from her back when they first met. He had already been working for Marie and Patch as one of their assistant coaches for a year when they’d hired Tessa as one of the choreographers. That they’d started off on the wrong foot was a huge understatement. He’d been too cocky, too ready to rile up this perfect ex-ballerina with the gorgeous green eyes. And she’d been cool and steely towards him, too ready to argue back until he’d usually have to begrudgingly admit that she was right, at least about some things.

It took a lot of long hours and late nights before they’d broken through each others’ defences, one particular night when Tessa confessed how much it had shattered her when her injuries were too much for her to continue dancing and how she wants to make sure she doesn’t fuck up this switch in career, and him admitting how the fact that he never quite made it in ice dance when he was younger has him always wanting to prove that he knows what he’s doing now as a coach.

Marie and Patch just about had a stroke when they saw the pair of them laughing together the next day, no hint of their usual passive-aggressiveness. They still have times when they disagree, of course, but they’ve learned to listen to each other. He respects the hell out of Tessa, can’t imagine having anyone else as a partner.

“And last, but not least,” he does a quick drum roll on the small table in the break room, “I just want you to be happy, T.” He’d debated whether or not to add the last point, because she’d probably just roll her eyes.

She doesn’t react like he’d expected, though, a soft ‘oh’ falling from her lips instead.

“Obviously you don’t need someone to be happy,” he starts again, “But if you like him, he must be something special, yeah?”

“Yeah,” she nods, murmurs softly, “he’s the best.” 

There’s an ache in his chest that he can’t quite explain, and she’s not looking at him but at their still-joined hands. He hadn’t even realised that he was holding her hand, can’t recall what moment he reached for it, or the second she clasped back.

“So, what do you say?”

She looks at him for a long time. “Okay,” she says, shaking her head like she can’t quite believe what she’s agreeing to. “Okay.”

—

Tessa brings a notebook and a pen to their first lesson, which doesn’t surprise him at all. It’s a black journal, so clearly new and the pages still crisp, and she must’ve bought it for this purpose exactly. She sits at his kitchen island, taking the one barstool that doesn’t creak, her pen already uncapped.

She looks nervous, which is rare for her, her lips pressed together and sitting up straighter than usual. But he gets it—this is important for her to get right.

“So, T,” he says, leaning on his forearms, “tell me, what’s your end goal?”

“Umm...to not give him food poisoning?”

He laughs, thinking back to their earlier conversation. “That’s a good goal. But I was thinking more about the food.”

She taps her blank page. “A simple dinner? Like main and dessert?”

“Like what we usually do?”

She nods, "Yes, please."

“Okay, we can work with that.” He glances at the stack of notebooks with his favourite recipes. “Any meal in particular that you want to do?”

“I know he likes his steak,” she says hesitantly, “and his potatoes. He’s not much of a dessert guy so maybe something not too sweet?”

That sounds like his ideal meal, to be honest, so this is all within his area of expertise and the contents of his refrigerator. 

"We can do a basic mashed potatoes? I have some steaks in my freezer that I was going to cook for tonight anyway. Plus a salad? What do you think?" 

"That sounds like a lot," she says, wrapping her arms around herself. "But let's do it."

He smiles, holds out his hand for her to take, and she places her hand in his, and he tugs her to her feet, spins her once. She laughs, the sound bursting out of her and echoing in the small space, and it seems like she feels lighter, and he won't tell her but he loves being the reason for the sound. 

She stops, holding her side and catching her breath, but her eyes are bright. "What do you want me to do first?" 

"Can you grab me the potatoes from the refrigerator? Then the butter and the milk.” Tessa pushes up her sleeves, grabs the ingredients and puts them on his kitchen counter, tucking her hair behind her ears after. 

He grabs the salt and pepper, realises once again, as he looks for the peeler and potato masher in his kitchen drawer that he should’ve taken the time to organise it. Tessa's reminded him many, many times, but he always forgets. When he looks up at her once he's finally found both things, she's got an 'I told you so' smile on her face, and he shrugs sheepishly. He'll get around to it one day. 

“Can you grab a large pot as well?" he asks." It’s in the—”

“This cupboard, yeah?”

“Yeah.” He forgets how often she’s been here, that it’s often enough that she probably knows the location of most things better than he does just from watching him because her memory’s impeccable. “And then we'll start peeling the potatoes."

It's easy, companionable quiet as they work together side by side, placing the peeled potatoes in the empty pot as they go. He looks at her, and she's biting her bottom lip in concentration, and it's the most endearing thing. He's a lucky guy, whoever he is that Tessa is planning to make this dinner for. He hopes he knows it. 

“Then we'll add water,” he waits until she’s done that, “then make sure to add salt before we leave it to boil. We’ll get started on the steak while we’re waiting.”

“I forget that you have to do more than one thing at once.” She looks paler at the thought, worrying at the edges of her sleeves. 

He squeezes her shoulder. “You can do this. You're Tessa Virtue and you're brilliant!"

She rolls her eyes. "That's not what you said when you first met me," she reminds him as she turns the stove on. 

He groans, dropping his forehead on her shoulder. "I know, I know. I was wrong, okay? Completely an idiot." He feels her shoulders shake with laughter. 

He grabs the steaks from the refrigerator. “Can you grab the salt and pepper, and season these?”

“How much?” She looks terrified as she takes the salt and pepper grinders.

“Just enough.” He laughs and she shoots him a look. “Here, I’ll show you.” He takes the salt grinder from her hand, gives one side of the steak a generous seasoning. “Yeah?”

She swallows, croaks out a ‘yeah’, and takes the salt grinder from him and copies what he did, repeating it on both sides of the steaks.

He turns another stove on for the steak, places an empty skillet on it. “Then can you melt some butter in this pan? We’ll put the steaks on, and then we need to cook for about four minutes each side.” He gives her the tongs to flip the steaks, grabs a plate to transfer them to as well as the roll of aluminium foil.

She transfers it onto the waiting plate, and he covers it in foil to rest. “Looking good, kiddo,” he nudges her hip. “The potatoes are just about done. Then we can drain them and start mashing. We’ll melt some butter into milk in a saucepan and then put that in with the mashed potatoes. I like to add sour cream too, that’s one of the secrets that you’ll get from me.” He smiles, steps aside so she can take over the stirring.

Once she’s added the butter, milk and sour cream, he steps closer to her with the salt and pepper, putting them down on the counter. He places a hand on the small of her back, as she seasons, looking over her shoulder.

"And the last thing we can do is a quick salad," he says, after, grabbing some vegetables from his the crisper bin in his refrigerator, as well as a knife and a chopping board.

Tessa looks terrified when he hands her the knife, so without really thinking, he comes up behind her, places his hands gently on hers and guides her in chopping up the vegetables. 

“Just make sure you curve your fingers like this,” he shows her, “so then they’re not at risk of being cut by the blade.” He starts to chop the vegetables with firm cuts of the knife, but he starts off slowly, until she becomes more confident. 

He can feel the warmth of her from this close, the rhythm of her breathing, the vanilla scent of her lotion. It hits his senses all at once, and he stumbles back. It’s not something he would’ve realised a week ago, how close they tend to be in each other’s space, but he realises now. He thinks of the man that Tessa is preparing all this for, and he steps back even more, moving towards the steaks that are still covered.

He uncovers the steaks and transfers them to plates, and Tessa scoops the mashed potatoes onto the plates, as well as the salad.

He holds a hand up for a high-five once they’re done (even though he knows they’ll miss), pulls her into his side and wraps an arm tight around her shoulders. 

“It looks good, T,” he says as he grabs them plates and cutlery, as well as opening a bottle of red to accompany the meal, just for her. She sits back on her barstool and he leans against his counter, pulling the second plate towards him.

“How was your day today?” he asks. It’s a familiar question.

“You’ve seen me for the better part of today,” she says, fond. It’s a familiar reply. “There’s this bit of choreography that I’m struggling to translate to the ice actually for one of the juniors.” She sighs, taking another bite of her salad. “I’ll just have to keep working at it.”

“Show me next week? We’ll figure it out.”

She gives him a grateful smile. He loves having time like this, loves having these quiet conversations with her about nothing and everything.

It’s as she’s polishing off her plate that she sits up suddenly. “Oh!” She leans down to press her forehead into her palm. “I forgot to buy dessert. Sorry,” she looks up at him guiltily, “my head's been kind of all over the place…"

He shakes his head, reaching over to squeeze her hand. "You don't need to worry, T." He looks for the blueberry cheesecake he’d bought earlier that week, the one he knows is her favourite. “I’ve got us covered.” He cuts a generous slice for her, and one for him as well.

He offers the plate to her, and he doesn't know exactly how to describe how she looks at him as she reaches out to take her plate, but it's like she's searching for something, and he doesn’t know what it is.

He doesn’t know if she’s found what she’s looking for.

These quiet evenings tend to last, and he’ll always let her stay as long as she wants to. Once they’re finished, he takes all the plates over to the sink. When he starts filling the sink with soapy water to start washing the dishes, she opens the bottom drawer to find his clean dish towels, taking her place by his side.

“Thanks, Scott,” she says, as she takes a clean plate from him. “For tonight.”

“Anytime, T.” He scrubs at one of the pans, pauses to look at her. “We’ll do this again next week?”

“It’s not a bother?”

He shakes his head. “Never.” 

“Then I’d love to.” She pauses, clutching the dish towel tight, before softly adding, “You’re the best.”

—

“Marie tells me that you’re teaching Tessa how to cook,” Patch says as his greeting one morning, an amused look on his face. At this point, it has stopped surprising him how much Marie and Patch like to gossip.

“Uh, yes?”

“For her ‘mystery man’?”

“Uh, yes?”

“Forgive me for asking, Scott. But do you know who it is?”

“Uh, no?” He wonders, every so often, but he accepts it’s not his place to ask the question. Whoever he is, he trusts that he’s a good man, if Tessa adores him.

“ _Mon dieu,_ ” Patch mutters, looking up at the ceiling. “Well, good luck, to both of you.”

“Thank you?” 

Patch is already walking away, shaking his head.

—

He doesn’t really know desserts that well, usually only bakes for his nieces and nephews, but knowing that Tessa wants to work on a dessert this week has him googling recipes whenever he has the spare time. All he has to go off of is that it shouldn’t be something too sweet. He writes that down, underlining it twice. 

He hears the front door opening and closing. It must be Tessa.

“Hey, T!”

“Sorry I’m late!” she apologises. It’s maybe five minutes later than what they agreed, which is not really late in his opinion. God knows that if he’s fifteen minutes late, then that’s pretty much early for him.

“It’s alright. Come sit.” He waits for her to sit down. “I’ll admit I don’t really know desserts that well. I’ve been researching but I’m scared I’ll let you down.”

“You couldn’t let me down. Never.” The fierceness that she says it with makes him feel grateful. “I’ve had a look at some recipes too, maybe you can have a skim through them. I might be getting too ambitious, though.”

“Anything to impress him, right?” He smiles. “What have you got?”

She shows him what she’s bookmarked on her phone.

“I like this one.” He points to a lemon tart recipe. “The citrus means that it shouldn’t be too sweet.”

“Yeah? Do you have the ingredients?”

He skims the recipe. “I still have leftover lemons from a marinade I tried for chicken a couple of nights ago, which I thought was pretty good. You should try it too, Tess. Maybe he'll like it." He skims the rest of the recipe. "I think I have everything else." 

He finds the flour, butter, sugar, and cream. He looks up to find Tessa already grabbing a bowl, opening and closing a couple of drawers until she finds his spatula.

“This is the thing to mix it with, right?” She sounds worried, and he smiles reassuringly at her, not wanting her to feel any more anxious.

“Yeah,” he squints at the recipe on her phone. “So we’ll just mix the flour, melted butter and sugar first until the dough forms, and then we’ll put it into the tin. Once I find it.” He crosses his fingers that he has the right one lying around. The mess that is his kitchen cupboards really needs to be sorted out, and he doesn’t even know what’s really in them.

It takes him a while but he finally finds the right one and he breathes a sigh of relief. He doesn’t want to add to any more of Tessa’s worries.

Tessa presses the dough into the tin, pierces the dough with a fork as the recipe instructed. He’s lucky he had some dried beans in his pantry they could use for baking the dough blind. 

“We’ll wait...twenty minutes,” he reads off the recipe. “This is gonna take a while, T,” he says, “we’ll be waiting for the pastry to bake, then to cool…then we’ll have to actually bake it with the filling.”

She smiles. “I’m not in a hurry. As long as you want me here...I’ll stay.”

He hides his smile as he’s finding another bowl. As if he’ll ever be the the one to ask her to leave.

Once he locates another bowl, he finds the sugar, egg, cream and lemon juice from his refrigerator and pantry for the filling. Tessa mixes the required amounts, and like every step before, she does it with a crease between her eyebrows and biting her bottom lip. She does it with all of herself, and it makes his breath catch, although he can’t quite pinpoint why, and she’s looking up at him with the same piercing green and he loses track of what he’s thinking.

While they’re waiting, he finds some of the chicken leftovers to heat up so that he and Tessa actually have something to eat for dinner, and the smile that lights up her face and the quietly murmured ‘this is so good, Scott’ is the highest praise he’ll ever get for his cooking.

The oven timer goes off, and he takes the crust out. There’s a bit of waiting for the crust to cool down after it’s finished baking, but it’s easy to get lost in a discussion about the skaters they work with, about the upcoming comps that he’ll go to with them. If there’s anything he’s worried about, he can count on Tessa for advice, for reassurance, for comfort. Somehow, she knows exactly what he needs before he asks for it. He can only hope that he’s as good a partner to her as she is to him.

Once the crust is cool enough, Tessa pours the filling in and he puts it back in the oven. It’s getting late and he stifles a yawn. The two of them start on the washing-up while they’re waiting for the tart to finish baking.

He rubs his hip where he’s pretty sure he’s bruised it from accidentally falling on the ice earlier that day. Tessa notices, because she always notices. She had found it very amusing earlier that day, until he’d visibly winced and her expression had turned into a concerned frown. The same frown graces her features now.

“Is it still hurting?” She pauses in the middle of wiping down the counters

“Not really.” She gives him a look and he caves. “Okay, maybe a little bit,” he admits, and she shakes her head, gives him an exasperated smile.

“ _You_ need to be more careful. What am I going to do if you’re injured?”

“Celebrate?” he jokes, placing the washed bowl carefully on the drying rack.

She shakes her head. “I’d miss you,” she confesses.

He stops, something in his chest trembling. “I’d miss you too. But I’m not out of commission yet, T. I’ll be pestering you for a while still.”

When they’ve gotten through most of the cleaning, the oven timer goes off again, and he gives her the oven mitts. “You can do the honours, Virtch.”

He sets up the cooling rack, and she opens the oven door, takes the tart out and places it on the rack.

Once the tart is cool enough (it’s probably a little too early, but he’s impatient) he takes it out, dusts it with some of the icing sugar, and cuts a slice. He offers it to Tessa but she shakes her head and says, “You first.”

“Okay.” If that’s what she wants, he’ll taste it first. He takes a bite of the tart. 

Tessa’s watching him closely, visibly nervous. “Did it turn out okay?”

He smiles as reassuringly as he can. “It’s so good, Tess. You’ve got nothing to worry about. I’m sure he’ll love it.” He scoops up the last piece, theatrically groaning until Tessa smiles. “Honestly, T, if I was in his place, after this tart? I’d probably be on one knee by the end of the night proposing.”

“To the tart?” she jokes weakly, cheeks pink.

He laughs, cutting her a slice of her own, sprinkling it with a little more icing sugar because he knows she likes her desserts as sweet as she can possibly get away with.

“In all honesty,” he begins, leaning his back against the counter and turning to look at her, “I hope he appreciates all the time and effort you’re putting in for the dinner.” _I hope he appreciates you,_ are the words he leaves unsaid, even if he’s exactly not sure why.

“I think he will,” she says softly.

He doesn’t know what possesses him to ask the next question. “What’s he like, T? If it’s okay for me to ask,” he hurries to add.

“No, no, it’s okay. You’re not overstepping.” She cradles the plate against her waist, tilts her head to the side. “He...understands me, knows me, in a way that not a lot of people take the time to do. He makes me laugh, makes me _think_. He gives the best hugs—when I’m in his arms, I know there’s no safer place in the world. I don’t know anyone as generous, as good, as him.” Her words run into each other, softer and softer until it’s barely a whisper.

“You love him.”

He hears her take a deep breath, hears her sigh, sees her smile, softly, adoringly. “Yes. Yes, I do.”

—

“Scott!” Marie-France greets him. “How are you?”

“Good,” he rubs the back of his neck. “A little stressed but that’s par for the course at this time of the season.”

Marie-France looks like there’s something else she wants to say, her hands fidgeting at her sides. Eventually, she says, “How are the cooking lessons going?”

“With Tessa?” He’s a little confused with how invested Marie-France and Patch are in how it's going.

“Yes?”

“It’s going well, I think.” It’s a few weeks in, they’ve tried a variety of recipes and it’s been mostly successful. Tessa’s a quick study and she’s more willing to go in-depth when researching. Just the other night she was showing him all the fancy french words for knife techniques as she was chopping up a salad. He doesn’t remember them now, but he does remember the way she had enunciated each word, the careful caress of her mouth for every syllable, and how much the low husk of her voice has been stuck in his head. “It’ll probably be the big day soon.”

Marie-France looks at him in a way that can only be described as disbelieving.

“Scott, do you know who it’s for?”

“No,” he replies, honestly. The question lingers in his mind more often, but he’s sticking to his promise that he wasn’t going to ask about who it is. “It’s not my place.”

Marie-France’s expression softens. “Alright, I understand. Well,” she spreads her hands open in front of her and shrugs, “I hope it all goes well. Tell Tessa I wish her the best of luck.”

Marie-France has just turned and started walking away when he asks, impulsively, “Wait, Marie. Do you know who it is?”

She turns back. “Yes, I think I do,” she says, slowly.

“Is he a good man?”

Marie-France nods. “Yes.”

He swallows, throat suddenly dry. “Will he make Tessa happy?” _Will he adore her, make her her third cup of coffee, lift her up when she’s down, make her laugh make her smile—_

“Yes.” She smiles, nods again with a distinct air of finality. “Yes, he will.”

—

It’s another Friday evening, just before Tessa comes, when he’s poring over his notebooks that he's scattered across his kitchen counter. He’s flipping through the pages, trying to figure out what he and Tessa are going to cook, when he realises.

There’s a reason why there are so many notebooks littering his counter, why they cover the space with barely any empty room. There’s a reason why Tessa’s name, in all its variations, is written all over the recipes, small annotations in the margins saying _Tess liked this one, T thinks it should be sweeter, to try for Virtch!_ There’s a reason why even though he’s spent so many Friday evenings with her, he could easily, willingly, spend a hundred more.

But he won’t. Not for long, not when she loves someone else. Not when there’s someone else who’ll get her Friday evenings and her laughter and her jokes where she never quite delivers the punchline right.

He hears the front door opening and closing and it must be Tessa using her spare key. He thinks about how he doesn’t even clearly remember the memory of him giving it to her, only that it must have been easier after spending so many evenings together—it’s Tessa and there’s few people on this earth that he trusts as much as Tessa. It must have been effortless, subconscious, something inevitable. It must have been the same way that he gave her his heart.

She calls out his name, and he hears her taking off her jacket, the rhythm of her footsteps as she makes her way down the hallway, taking the left to reach his kitchen. It’s a simple symphony, these sounds of hers, and he thinks about the silence that will follow when he loses this, about how he’ll be looking towards the door, forgetting that the person he’s waiting for won’t come, until it hits him again, over and over. There’s an ache in his throat and in his chest and he feels mildly faint.

She’s taking her hair out of her bun, the soft, dark strands cascading down her shoulders, and he thinks about waking up to seeing her hair sprawled across his pillows while she sleeps next to him, and he shouldn’t, he knows, but he quietly wishes for it anyway.

Tessa notices that something’s wrong, because she always notices, _because she knows him._ “Scott?” Her voice is full of concern, and she comes close to him, cupping his cheek until he’s looking at her. He should be scared that she’ll see what he’s just realised, but he doesn’t look away, doesn’t let his gaze waver. When she touches him, her skin pressed against his, he thinks of lighthouses guiding ships home. “Are you okay?”

 _I love you I love you I love you,_ he thinks. “Yes,” he says, catching her hand against his cheek, turning to kiss her palm even though he knows it’s a stolen thing. “I’m okay.” He tries to smile. “Any thoughts on what to cook tonight?” He gestures to all his open notebooks, like it’s not pieces of his heart woven into the pages, like it’s not love letters to her every time he writes her name in the margins.

She leans in close, flips through a few pages. He watches her run her fingers under the words, thinks he can feel the caress of her touch on his handwriting like she’s running her fingers on the bare skin of his chest, right over his beating heart.

“This one?” she taps on a recipe for lasagne. On the margins, he’s written _Tess wants extra cheese!_ and _extra veg because T doesn’t think it’s healthy enough._ “I love it when you make it.”

He thinks he’ll do anything for her, foolishly, recklessly, without abandon. “Of course.”

She hums while they’re making dinner, which he’s learned is when she’s truly relaxed and happy and he thinks, _how long how long how long, how long do I have until I lose you?_

He gets his answer soon enough.

She’s sitting at his kitchen counter, her plate of lasagne in front of her nearly finished when she asks, “Next Friday, can we do things a little differently? Come to my place instead. I’ll make dinner.” She smiles, absolutely radiant and it knocks all the air in his lungs out his chest. “And dress fancy! I know you clean up well, Moir.”

It hits him, all at once, what it must be. It must be a practice run for the guy she’s trying to impress. This could break his heart, can already feel the fractures that will give way to the cracks, and it’s foolish, reckless, but he’ll do anything for her. “Okay, Virtch. I’ll be there.”

—

He holds a bouquet of pale pink tulips in his hands when he waits at her doorstep. It’s not a date, of course, but he knows what’s in his heart and he wants to give her something, even if he can’t say the words. He has his spare key to her place in his palm, and although he doesn’t really have a reason to have one, she’d given him one in exchange for his. He can count the number of times that he’s actually used it, if there’s something she needs picked up or she’s sick and he’s bringing her sustenance.

He pushes it in the lock, turns until he feels it click. When he opens the door, he can already smell Tessa’s cooking, can already hear her humming. She must be so happy. He’ll be her friend for as long as she wants, and he’ll do everything he can to make her happy in his place as her friend, but he hopes that this man that she loves does all that he can and more for Tessa. She deserves it. She deserves it all.

“T! I’m here,” he yells.

“Come through! Dinner’s nearly ready.”

Once he reaches the kitchen, he takes a moment to watch her, checking on what’s on the stove, in the oven, hair thrown up in a messy bun, in a sweatshirt that he could’ve sworn was one of his and plain black leggings.

The sight is absolutely devastating.

She turns around and sees him. “Hi!” She comes to him and wraps her arms around him, holding him close and tight, and he can feel every part of them that are pressed together, hands and chests and their heads against each other’s necks. She steps back to look at him, something unreadable in her eyes. There’s flour on her cheek and it’s the cutest fucking thing and he fights the urge to rub it away. “Are those for me?” She gestures to the flowers.

“Yeah,” he says, a little sheepish, scared he’d done the wrong thing. He’s here for a dress rehearsal for god’s sake, not the real thing.

“I love them.” She touches the petals, a soft smile on her lips. “Let me just put them in some water. And come sit. Or you know, stand and make fun of me.”

He comes over to lean on the kitchen counter, shaking his head. “You’re doing wonderful, Tess.”

She blushes, busies herself with finding an empty jar and filling it with water, then turns back to what she’s making. He realises it’s the steak and mashed potatoes he showed her the first night, the one that he’d thought absent-mindedly was his ideal meal, and it’s the lemon tart, when he’d joked he’d propose to her if she ever served it to him.

It’s like everything he could ever want for one perfect evening. He knows that to her, he’s just a friend doing her a favour, but he’ll keep this memory for a long, long time, revisit on the evenings when it’s no longer him that’s sitting with her at her dinner table. He takes a shaky breath, swallows, rubs his palms on the black slacks that he’d ironed the night before.

“Are you sure there isn’t anything I can do to help?”

“No,” she waves her hand dismissively. “Just relax. You’re the guest tonight. You can open the bottle of wine though, if you want.” She gestures to her wine rack, then points to one of her cabinets. “The wine glasses are in that cupboard.”

He uncorks the bottle of red, pours a glass for each of them. His hands somehow manage to be steady, which is the complete opposite of what he feels. She’s set up her dining table properly, has even lit candles, and he smiles at how committed she is to the entire thing, even though he’s just a practice run. 

It feels selfish, to savour this evening with her, to make it mean more than what she intends it to mean, but if he just keeps it a secret in the trembling, aching hollow of his palms, then maybe he can be forgiven.

She brings all the food over to the table, says to him that he can take a seat, that she’ll just take a while to get ready. He can kind of hear her, the rustle of fabric as she gets changed, the pad of her footsteps, her humming.

He doesn't know how long he waits for, but when he sees her, the only word he can think of is _breathtaking_ , her deep red dress clinging tight to every line and curve, her hair pulled up, soft tendrils framing her face. The green, gorgeous green of her eyes makes his heartbeat stutter again, not for the first time, and definitely not the last.

She just looks so happy. 

He stands up abruptly, legs knocking into the table. He thought he was a stronger man, that he could get through this evening with his heart intact, but he knows she's picturing someone else where he's standing, and he won't begrudge her her happiness, but he can't stay any longer. 

"Tess," he says, voice breaking. 

"Yes?" She's so radiant, and he wonders if this is what the earth feels at the first kiss of golden sunlight pouring across the sky each dawn. 

She comes close enough to touch, and his hands find her waist, forehead pressed against hers, because he's drawn in by her gravity, always and endlessly falling. Her hands find their home on his chest, which is fitting because there's a heart there that's hers. 

"I have to go." He feels her tense in his arms. He shifts a hand to her lower back, rubbing it in slow circles. 

"W-Why?"

He hopes she'll be able to forgive him. "I have something I need to say," he swallows, "but I promise, _I promise,_ that this doesn't change anything between us. I'll always be here." _I'll always be yours._ He closes his eyes, whispers brokenly, "I'm so, so in love with you."

He hears her sharp intake of breath. 

He can't get out the next words fast enough. "I know there's someone else, that this is just a practice run, I understand that, I promise. But I'm so sorry, Virtch," he tries to smile but he doesn’t think he succeeds, "but I can't stay."

He feels her hand at his cheek, and he breaks. 

"Scott," her thumbs wipe away his tears, " _Scott_. There isn't anyone else. This isn't meant to be a practice run."

He opens his eyes, sees her watery green ones. He doesn’t understand.

"This isn't for anyone else." She shakes her head, pauses, takes a deep breath, cradling his face like it’s the most precious thing, her thumbs sweeping back and forth across his skin. "This is for you."

"For me?"

"Yes," a soft laugh leaves her, " _yes,_ Scott. It's you. I'm so, so in love with you. It was meant to be a surprise, but you!" She jabs her finger at his chest, "You were so insistent on helping, and I figured this was the easiest way to figure out for sure what you'd actually enjoy having for dinner." 

"You love me?"

"I love you," she says, simply. She clutches the front of his shirt, buries her head in the crook of his neck, breathes him in, mumbling, "God, Scott, I basically spend all my time with you, who else could it have been?"

He laughs, touches her cheek until she looks up at him. “Someone better?” he jokes, his nose nudging hers.

She shakes her head. “There’s no one better,” she murmurs, and he dips his head to kiss her. She makes the softest, sweetest sound, can feel her smile against his lips and he’ll kiss her a hundred, a thousand, a million more times if only so he can feel her happiness from this close. She pulls him closer and he’s helpless to follow, because he’s hers, all of him, pouring everything he’s feeling. He slides one hand up to cradle the back of her neck, the other steady at her waist. She whimpers when they have to pull back to breathe, and he chases her mouth for one last kiss. Her lipstick is smudged, her eyes shining, and she’s holding onto him like she never wants to let go, and it’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. He tries to rub the corner of her lips to fix it, but doesn’t really succeed. He’s sure that she’s marked him as well, and he doesn’t even try to suppress his grin at the thought.

All of a sudden, Tessa’s stomach grumbles.

She mumbles, “Shut up.”

“I didn’t say anything!” he laughs, kissing her again, because he can. “Let’s eat?”

She’d set up the table so that they were sitting across from each other but he moves his chair so that it’s next to hers, catches her roll her eyes at him but she curls herself into his side anyway, and it’s not new, this closeness, this tenderness—it just took him a little longer to realise what’s already written in his heart, on his hands.

She feeds him bites from her plate, and he doesn’t resist the urge to kiss her after she pouts when he teases that she should have seasoned the food with a touch more salt (she didn’t need to, it was perfect, and he adores this, how they’re still Tessa and Scott, just a little more in love.) 

This time, he doesn’t need to stop himself from rubbing the corner of her lip, doesn’t need to stop himself from following the touch of his fingertips with the touch of his mouth.

His hand traces idle, gentle lines on the exposed skin of her back. She shivers a little, eyes dark and full of promise, and he’ll never expect anything, can only be grateful for the parts of her she’s already given, and when she kisses him with fervour, a hand wandering down his chest and fingernails grazing, the other tugging his hair, he’ll give her every part of him that she asks for.

Her mouth makes its way down his neck, nipping and soothing, and he grips her tighter, fingertips pressed into the exposed skin of her back. She moves into his lap, widening her legs and rolling her hips against him, and he groans into her mouth as he grows harder beneath her, as he threads his hand into her hair, the other moving to cup her ass and pushing her closer against him. 

“Tess,” he groans as she threads her fingers through his hair and tugs, “what about...what about your dinner?” The world feels like a blurry haze but he knows how hard she’s worked, and he doesn’t want it to become a waste.

She cradles his face, her gaze full and deliberate and loving, “I want you,” she whispers, presses a kiss to his lips, tender and lingering. “Just you.” 

His fingertips find the dip of her spine and she shivers, pressing closer. Her lips move across his temple, tracing his ear and it’s his turn to tremble. _Please,_ she says, and he wants to hear her say that, the same breathlessness, the same _want_ , over and over.

He nods, murmuring _okay_ as he presses his lips to her pulse point, as he skims his teeth lightly against it and a whine escapes her. He threads his fingers through hers, their bodies still close when they stand up, and as they make their way to her bedroom, touching in some way—her mouth to his hands or his hands to her waist or their lips against each others, the curve of her lips as she’s smiling against his imperfectly fitting, and it’s the most wondrous thing.

She pulls him into her, as she leans against her bedroom door, their soft laughter weaving together in the quiet. She reaches behind her, fumbles with getting the door open, and they stumble past the doorway, her hand leading him in. Moonlight shines in through the open windows.

She moves to take her dress off but he shakes his head, says softly, “Can I?”

She nods, spins around as he finds the clasp at the back of her neck, undoing it. He kisses her neck, relishing in the noises that escape her, as she tilts her head, gives more of herself to him. She gives and gives, and all he wants is to give all of himself back. He wonders if she knows what she holds in her palms—his heart, every beat and rhythm. He finds the beginning of her zip, pulls it down slowly, the low hum stark in the silence. He takes his time, feels her trembling under his hands, hears her whimper his name as he skims the pad of his thumb down her back.

Finally undone, the dress pools into the rumpled heap on the floor, and she turns in his arms slowly, biting her bottom lip and peeking up at him through her eyelashes, covered in nothing but a scrap of white lace. He has to close his eyes, and her hands settle on the back of his neck. His own find the curve of her waist and the touch of his skin on hers makes her breath stutter.

"You’re too overdressed,” she informs him, nipping his earlobe and he laughs.

She takes it upon herself to solve the problem, taking her time freeing each button, her fingertips wandering down his chest. She pulls the shirt out of his slacks, pushes it off his shoulders until it falls on her bedroom floor. She quickly undoes his pants, more impatient, pushing them down.

He’s aware of every inch of them touching, the sweet scent of her hair and her skin, the rise and fall of her breaths. They stay holding each other, lingering, savouring the moment.

She’s the first one to lean up to kiss him, and he’s the first to start walking them slowly towards her bed. She lays back first, unwilling to let go of him and pulling him close, and they end up sideways across the mattress, their heads closer to the foot of the bed, but he doesn’t care. Not when Tessa is touching him, loving him, like this. She’s making the prettiest little noises as he moves his mouth to her neck, as his hand moves up to tease her nipple. She arches her back, a cry leaving her red and parted lips, when he circles his tongue around her nipple, grazes it with his teeth, sucks her breast into his mouth.

“Fuck, Scott, _baby_ , that’s— _ohhh,_ ” she moans as he roughly pulls the lace aside from her cunt, his fingers finding her so fucking wet, and her eyes roll to the back of her head when he spreads her lewdly, thumb circling her clit. He groans when he thinks about how easily the term of endearment slipped from her lips, wonders how long it’s been waiting, wants to say the same thing.

He pins her down with his arm as he slides a finger inside her clenching heat, murmurs how fucking gorgeous she is like this, taking him. He holds her open when he kisses up her thighs, tongue parting her drenched cunt, groaning when he tastes her for the first time, rocking his hips into her bed when she buries her hand in his hair and pulls.

She keeps on making these sweet, desperate noises, and it’s music to his ears, but still behind clenched teeth and he wants to undo her, show her she doesn’t need to hold anything back when she’s with him, in this way, in any way. He pushes his tongue inside her, working his nose against her sensitive nub, digs his nails into the flesh of her ass until she cries out, loud and uninhibited, no longer caring about what she sounds like.

Her breaths become more laboured, high-pitched, and every desperate whine goes straight to his cock. But he’s taking care of her first, wants to watch her fall apart because of him.

“Scott, Scott, _Scott,_ ” she whimpers and she’s made his name hers when she says it like that, and he wants to coax that from her again and again.

“So, so beautiful, you’re so pretty, you know that, Tess?” he murmurs, low, as he replaces his tongue with his fingers. He feels so much for Tessa, this gorgeous woman writhing beneath him, has so much love in his heart that it nearly overwhelms him, but he embraces it, leans as fiercely and bravely as he can into it, and he doesn’t stop the torrent of praise that leave his mouth, not when she’s responding so exquisitely to it, not when every word is true. She clenches around him, lets out a breathy moan. “Good girl. You take me so well, baby, so good for me.” She flutters around him, lets out a rough whimper. He dips his head to tease her clit with his tongue, stroking it firmly, her thighs trembling around him, and she cries out as she falls to pieces, shaking, around him.

He keeps going, kissing and licking softly, soft groans still leaving her. When he lifts up his head to look at her, he realises she has her neck tilted back, her chest still heaving, and he follows her gaze to where she’s looking at the mirror on her vanity. He can see the two of them, sprawled on her messed-up bedsheets. She notices him noticing and her eyes widen, turning back to face him, not meeting his eyes and biting her bottom lip.

He can feel her pulling back and he presses a tender kiss to her jaw. How could she think that there isn’t a facet of hers that he doesn’t adore?

“Scott, I—” she starts, wrapping an arm around his shoulder. He doesn’t say anything, waits for her to finish her thought. When she doesn’t, he kisses her, softly, over and over, cradling her face, his thumb sweeping back and forth across her cheek.

When he pulls back, he lifts off of her, kisses her shoulder once when she whines at the loss of contact.

“On your stomach, Tess.”

She follows so easily, rolling and bringing her legs under her, the expanse of her back exposed for her touch, but she still has her head lowered. He presses a kiss to the top of her spine, feels her shiver, softly touching her cheek with his fingertips.

“Look, baby,” he whispers, lips against her hair, quickly nipping her ear and soothing it with another kiss. He places the softest pressure on her jaw until she whimpers, following his lead, until she’s looking at them in her mirror, his body crowding hers, pressing her into the bed. A strangled cry leaves her lips.

He leaves tender presses of his mouth on the dip of her back, his palms smoothing over her skin. She arches her back, raises up on her knees a little and his hands find her ass, kneading and squeezing.

He traces the folds of her pussy, groaning when he finds her still wet. He draws lazy, sloppy circles around her clit, feels his cock throb when she begs him for more. She whines when he takes his hand away from her cunt and places it back on the curve of her ass.

She pushes back against him, mouth parting like she wants to say something.

“What is it? Tell me, what do you want?” He cups her breast, drags his thumbnail across her nipple and she shudders.

She meets his eyes in the mirror, whispers low and trembling, “Want your handprint on me.” Her hands clutch the sheets tighter. 

He lands a firm smack with the flat of his palm, a guttural groan leaving her. She’s so beautiful, always has been, always will be, and her vulnerability, her _trust_ in him, is something delicate, something precious, something he’ll take care of for as long he lives.

He slaps her ass twice more, watching her face, and her eyes close in pleasure, her flesh starting to pinken.

“I want you now, _please_ , Scott, I want you inside me, want you to take me,” she gasps, bordering on a sob and he rubs her soothingly.

“I will, baby, you’ve been so good for me, so, so good,” he presses another kiss to her shoulder, her neck, feeling her shudder at his words. She spreads her knees wider, her cheek against the sheets and her arms outstretched above her head, and it makes some tender place in his chest ache, at how much of herself she’s sharing with him, how much of herself she’s giving him.

He asks her where she keeps her condoms, nuzzles her temple before he moves toward her bedside table, shoving his boxers down and kicking them aside. When he looks back at her, she’s smiling, something adoring and fond in the curve of her mouth.

“So graceful,” she murmurs, laughing.

He spanks her once, her laugh becoming a moan, although when he meets her eyes in the mirror, still smiling, it melts into a laugh again, her laugh and his weaving in the quiet of the room, like the sweetest music. She just looks so happy, and he loves that he’s the reason for her happiness, is left in awe that it’s because of him. He rolls the condom on as quick as he can, moves over her. She sighs as his body envelops hers. He drags his length along her pussy, slicking himself up with her wetness, breathes hard at every soft whimper that escapes her lips. He pushes in, slowly, draws out and pushing in a little more each time, his fingers light on her clit.

“Scott, please—” she pushes back, squirming under him. He soothes a palm over her back, following the line of her spine and her shoulder and her arm, finding her hand, joining their fingers.

He grits his teeth, the exquisite clench of her around him has him so close to the brink, but he wants to savour this moment, the touch of her skin on and under his open palms, her desperate whimpers, the taste of her skin on his lips, the familiar scent when he buries his nose in the crook of her neck, like he’s found his way home.

She moans his name, pleading, and he growls, thrusting into her harder. “ _Fuck_ , yes,” she moans, “just like that, you feel so good—”

It’s not a steady pace—he can’t maintain a rhythm when all he sees and hears and tastes and feels is Tessa, Tessa, Tessa. But he snaps his hips harder, the sound of their joining obscene and wondrous. Her bed, her love, is the sort of paradise he’d forsake perfect grace for.

He moves his hand to where they’re joined, feels her squeeze around him when he skates his fingers over her clit. It takes everything in him to stop himself from unravelling, but not until she comes first.

“Scott, I just need—I want—” she groans.

He spreads his hand on her waist, coaxes her to kneel up with him. She cards one hand through his hair, the other clutching his arm. She leans her whole weight against him, breathing heavily. Clearly seen in her mirror, their bodies, in their fucking, are each other’s. He’s sheathed in her cunt, and he cups her breast, rolling her nipple against his palm, sucking a mark into the unblemished skin of her neck.

Any hesitance from before about him seeing her watching them is gone now, when her gaze drinks their reflection in. She is breathtaking like this, flushed pink like the blush of temptation, adoration shining in the vivid greens of her eyes and _he is hers, entirely hers._ His hands worship her, until she falls apart in his arms, like perfect ruin and revelation.

He only holds on for a few seconds longer, following her body down onto the bed, holds her close as he empties himself. She turns her face and it’s barely an inch away from his, almost touching.

“I love you,” she whispers.

He doesn’t stop his smile, kisses her shoulder, brushes his fingers against her cheek, breathes her in. “I love you, too.”

—

He slips out of her arms and her bed in the middle of the night, careful not to wake her. Her hair fans out on the pillow behind her, her breathing soft and slow, and if he never sees any other work of art, he doesn’t need to. He’s seen her.

But he does want to clean up her kitchen before the morning. He puts his boxers back on, careful to open and shut the door gently, makes his way to her kitchen. He covers and puts the food away first, stealing another bite of the lemon tart, and he’s once again amazed when he thinks about how every dish here was made by Tessa’s hands for him, that love is an act of creation. 

He loves her, _loves her, loves her._

He wipes her table and her counters, brings all the dishes, cutlery, pots and pans to the sink. He fills it up with water, adds the soap, begins to scrub the plates.

“Scott?”

He turns around to find Tessa, having slipped on his shirt, hiding a yawn in her palm. She makes her way over to him, wrapping her arms around his shoulders and nuzzling into his back.

“You can go back to bed, T. I’ll be back soon,” he says gently.

She presses a kiss to his back, before letting go. She shakes her head, bends down to open one of her cabinets and finds a clean dish towel. It’s so familiar, because they’ve done this for so many evenings, but it’s new at the same time, because she’s in his shirt and they’ll sleep in her bed and he’ll wake up to her in the morning.

It’s quiet as he passes her what he’s finished rinsing, until she starts humming, a song that was playing at the rink earlier for one of the teams, and it thrills him that she’s happy, here with him.

It’s not long until everything’s put away, the clock on the wall telling them it’s long past midnight.

He wants to lose track of time with her like this, when it’s the last thing on his mind. He wants midnights with her, when the world is quiet and he’s holding her.

She wipes her hands on the dish towel, hangs it on the oven door, turns back to him and takes his hand. “Come back to bed?” He smiles, pulls her in until her body is flush against his, still holding her hands. She lets him, a soft laugh escaping her lips. She leads him, and he follows, and it is the only thing he wants to do.

They slip under her sheets, and she curls herself around his back, legs pressed against his. He captures her hand that's wrapped around his chest, holding it to his heart. 

"What do you want for breakfast in the morning?" he asks. 

He feels her smile against his neck, the tender, lingering touch of her lips. He hopes she knows she'll have to get used to the question, because he intends to ask it every time he's able to. 

"Whatever you want to make for me," she says, simply.

**Author's Note:**

> come say hi on [tumblr](https://echoesofstardust.tumblr.com/) or [twitter](https://twitter.com/stardust_echoes), and I hope you have a wonderful holiday season! sending you all my love <3


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